challenge
olderman
Posts: 1,765
I challenge all to write here a sonnet,
Restricted in the prose the poet rhymes,
Must be metred, patterns with love to let,
Or allude to the lust from your youth times,
Surpass in depth this crass challenge of mine,
Lest you cannot seize the moment - so quit,
Or take this challenge - show your awesome grit,
Let words flow within a structure of prime.
And when you have composed yourself clearly,
To entertain this thread - the wolves in the woods,
The vampyres, seeming to love you dearly,
With wanton lust we claim your mind and moods,
You will surrender your free prose merely,
To satisfy my challenge made of words.
Restricted in the prose the poet rhymes,
Must be metred, patterns with love to let,
Or allude to the lust from your youth times,
Surpass in depth this crass challenge of mine,
Lest you cannot seize the moment - so quit,
Or take this challenge - show your awesome grit,
Let words flow within a structure of prime.
And when you have composed yourself clearly,
To entertain this thread - the wolves in the woods,
The vampyres, seeming to love you dearly,
With wanton lust we claim your mind and moods,
You will surrender your free prose merely,
To satisfy my challenge made of words.
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
that he might woo fair Stella not expressed
directly to her but in roundabout
third person discourse. Wyatt could not test
his bravery in loving Ann Boleyn
through sounding that plain word, the simple 'you'
to speak the raw desire held within:
this, many suns before Anne Henry knew.
It fell to Shakespeare in his Sonnet One
to tell the one he loved to share his light
by fatherhood. Immediate in tone,
and using second-person language, might
we say that Shakespeare taught us how to praise
our lover, named in joyous heart-displays?
For my Renaissance Studies class, and he
Seemed intent, as far as I could see
To claim all sonnet-writers had to be
Sex-starved virgin soldiers in the years
of courtly England. "W*nking sonneteers"
was what he called them. He had had some beers
before the lecture, surely. There were tears
of laughter from the lecture hall at that
pronouncement on a bunch of poets. What
could we do but picture Sidney flat-
Backed and writhing as he held his hat
over his face, whilst crying for his Queen?
Great lovers have these sonnet-writers been!
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
that fekka roits way betta-n-i-do
Until the little bud began to bloom in my heart,
And it's embedding it's roots and gaining power,
It's getting strong and fast becoming a part.
I feel it shooting right on through me,
It's pleasant and welcomed like a warm embrace,
And if you could look inside me, you'd see
I was watering and feeding and giving it place.
Oh my love, to feel the leaves unfurling,
Sends vibrations that rock my very core.
To feel the petals slowly, gently uncurling,
The beauty of it makes me want so much more.
When I long for you I can smell the sweet scent,
My everything, my all, for you it is meant.
Hmmmm, sappy enough?
Sonnet for a Picture
That nose is out of drawing. With a gasp,
She pants upon the passionate lips that ache
With the red drain of her own mouth, and make
A monochord of colour. Like an asp,
One lithe lock wriggles in his rutilant grasp.
Her bosom is an oven of myrrh, to bake
Love's white warm shewbread to a browner cake.
The lock his fingers clench has burst its hasp.
The legs are absolutely abominable.
Ah! what keen overgust of wild-eyed woes
Flags in that bosom, flushes in that nose?
Nay! Death sets riddles for desire to spell,
Responsive. What red hem earth's passion sews,
But may be ravenously untripped in hell?
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
nice one, miss enlightened...
*bows down to the goddess of LURVE*
Jimi stretching strings, psychedelic blues,
Silk shadows, dance reflections of blue sea,
Colorful coral reefs of many hues,
The which would have been hidden if not for
Jimi's intense sonic whispers and screams,
His mermaid swimming on the ocean floor,
Castles on the beach, wash waves foam - the streams
In high mountains where his red house did stand,
Run clear, cool like rapids create vortex,
Waterfalls like crashing cymbals accent
The music in this vision of his band,
The circus mind, the textures will now flex
As I waken from the scene truly spent.
a bit rough but i have alot of fun with sonnets!!
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
suspended in a two-note bending wail
Soars ever-reaching over Marshall buzz
throughout the Fillmore East, to prize and hail
a new-beginning decade. Fingers blur
upon a maple fretboard, angled high.
"Auld Lang Syne" roars in this birthing year.
The light show pulses life's first lighted eye.
Nineteen-seventy. Come the fall
The notes are searing still the reddened skies
above Bill Graham's venue. Echoes shall
sprawl in axis rainbow flooding cries
landwide, to Greenwood where the man who played
That never-waning sound of love is laid.
That's one for you, olderman. And for Jimi too.
thank you fins, thank you very much, indeed
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
I had to change it because I had nine lines in the octet! I think I managed to condense the imagery okay, I hope, in the edit above. It didn't need the mention of New York if I said 'Fillmore East', really.
Cheers!
As twilit seas that ferry waking dreams,
As emerald and blue reflective eyes
(Mirror-dancing starblaze-simple gleams).
I hear songs: seductive; torrid; calm:
“Come to me! Come here”. Here ends my quest!
Breath, ageless, sings our shared, eternal psalm:
Birth, death, years yielding to a needled breast;
I, born of providence on Swedish Hill,
conceive you as sound-image enters me:
Loud choir-dreams sound deeply to instill
Love's beautiful revealed simplicity.
I paint the night as songs you breathe to me.
I flourish in unscripted destiny.
You're in another league, my love.
WOW is all i can say..
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
and I think I'm the only one who knows
Sperm, It's in you to give.
I used to have something to say... now I'm just a caricature of who I was... it's sad, that the one piece of me I wanted for you, is nothing but a misrepresentation of everything I am.
write prose of indifferent portent
and
arrange it
typographically on a page
and pass it off as verse
saying it reaches the essence
of true soul
more than skilled versifying.
In this big deconstructed ether
Quality of expression
balanced in form and content
isn't paramount.
Is it?
Is it?
of prose and rhyme for tis history sure
as it is your demon and obligation
to poetry's beauty and tradition,
words painted with black chalk on white paper
yet portraits are written on blank vapor,
whilst the princess doth not shine about us
instead her love is missing perhaps must
depart for a brighter shore perhaps love
has caught her heart and so drawn her away
to a place much like passions' paradise
as will happen when those in lovers grove
fly to some height not attained by some play -
words are both lovers shout and love's demise.
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Iambic pentametric form! Fail better!
was worn, exhausted, but with no signs of dying
she missed the warmth of a lover's embrace
and she longed for the smile of the eye's on his face
could a sunset ever show the glory
of his sweet smile that always told a story?
could the stars ever shine brighter than his light
that radiated from his touch every night?
the cold that makes her shiver so
will never ever let her go
and even when the sun burns hot
she'll sit forever thinking of him and rot
and there she'll toil her days away
hoping and wishing, she'll sit always and pray
www.myspace.com/birdinamitten
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
They lie in a far away tower,
Itching, and burning like diligent fire flies.
Plucked out of truth like a sad, bent little flower.
oh pooh, its all i could come up with in a matter of five minutes.
(Angelina Jolie)
this one was written by P. B. Shelley (he was married to the lady who wrote Frankenstein)
"Lift not the painted veil which those who live"
Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread,--behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave
Their shadows, o'er the chasm, sightless and drear.
I knew one who had lifted it--he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.
c'mon jammers .. write a sonnett
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
What is the form of a sonnett? What does it need to include?
i am too much imbibed to provide a correct answer right now but i will do so as soon as possible.. that is if finsbury does not do it..
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
A sonnet is a fourteen line poem. Each line usually (but not always) comprises ten syllables. A line comprises five beats or 'metric feet': thus we say it's 'pentametric'. These metric feet are made up of two syllables, with the first syllable being unstressed and the second, stressed: this kind of metric foot is called an 'iamb'; a sonnet is scanned in 'iambic pentameter'.
This sounds a bit complicated in theory but in practice a line of iambic pentameter looks like this:
shall I/ comPARE/ thee TO/ a SUMM/er's DAY?
or:
When I/ conSID/er EV/'ryTHING/that GROWS.
Basically, it's scanned da-DAH/ da-DAH/ da-DAH/ da-DAH/ da-DAH.
As I say, a sonnet has fourteen lines. There are many rhyme schemes but there are two main ones, the 'Petrarchan' and the 'Shakespearean'. The line endings of a Petrarchan sonnet rhyme in this formula:
abbaabbacdecde
The line endings of a Shakespearean sonnet, by far the most popular kind (though Petrarch himself seemed to have popularised the form), comprise this pattern:
ababcdcdefefgg
As I say, many people play with the sonnet form these days, but the 'classic' sonnet is usually made up of two sections, the 'octet' and the 'sestet'. Thematically, the octet often puts forth a proposition and the sestet expands on or even questions this. The beginning of line nine in many Renaissance sonnets is often called the 'volta' as it brings about a thematic turnaround.
As an exercise, you could look at the Shakespeare sonnet I included above (on page one of this thread), and note the rhyme scheme, the metre and the placing of the volta.
since I have drunk a sip of cupid's potion...
I yet do sit and drunkenly proclaim
that I will lose perforce in cupid's game
though loving I have loved and am not still
though loving being....always loving will
til if it should amuse you love me back
then well, I can say love is not the lack
but lovers, tho but one I want, not any...
and yet the coin of love is not a penny
it is not minted yet of which I speak...
but rising in my breast it does now peak
and peeking it is shy, and shy of me
wherefor does it not bring me quick to he?
I thought to shrink but all I did was grow
I bought a shrink who told me still to drink
and though I drank I yet but did slow-think
I thought of summers past and winters gone
I thought of life as one long marathon
and yet the more I thought the slow'r I grew
the fewer thoughts that ever I have slew
I slew the thoughts that made me always drink
I grew the shrink who set me first to think
he grew to be my mother.....bless her soul
the one who made me always less than whole
I grew to be a mother with the swell
of pregnancy and now my mind is well